Three Weeks Later
by amv4eva
Summary: Three weeks after the Battle of New York, a famous waitress sits at work mulling over what had happened and the man who had saved her life, only to look up and find a man who looks just like him standing in front of her. Can he help her when her life is threatened right in fron of him?Is it the real Captain America? (I'm worse at these than I remember). Slight CapxOC


_Amv: I live. Seriously, life has come at me and socked me full in the face for the past few years, leaving me with little time to myself, let alone you guys. I seriously miss you all, so here's a small gift to any of those who may still check my profile to see if I've posted._

_I have a major crush on Cap, so I've finally given in to my urge to write a one-shot starring him (and the waitress chick, who I've made much smarter than she seemed at the end of the movie). Her backstory and this plot is all mine, while Cap isn't. Or the _Avengers _franchise._

_On a random note, I also ship Clintasha/Blackhawk, whichever one you use._

* * *

_The Revolutionary War: 1772 to 1783._

_The War of 1812: 1811 to 1815._

_World War One: 1914 to 1919._

Annabeth Richards—or, as she preferred, simply Ann—frowned down at her textbook. Unlike normal people, who found history boring, the Fordham Grad student was obsessed with anything and everything having to do with the past. Memorizing dates kept her mind sharp and alert as she neatly settled events into the timeline of the world—or, as she preferred, the timeline of the United States. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, fighting a wave of exhaustion.

She glanced at the clock. It read 11:35. Since what was now being dubbed the Battle of New York three weeks ago, she had been working the late shift at this dingy little convenience store because her old restaurant was closed for major repairs. But tonight, not even obvious dates were keeping her focused; indeed, not even on a reading she was doing primarily out of boredom. Her history buff of a father had personally taught her all that there was to (mostly legally) know about this chapter: World War II.

Her father had been a military history expert, so she had absorbed his enthusiasm from an early age. Ann knew the strategies, the plane models, the casualties of so many battles and cities. It had gone without question that she would follow in his footsteps, and so she had decided to become a high school history teacher.

Ann sighed heavily. Lately, she had spent a lot of time wondering how he would have reacted to the recent war that had taken place in their own backyard. Would he have stepped back and objectively examined the tactics used on both sides? Would he have even been able to, given that one side was…was…_aliens_…and as of now, the government wasn't revealing why they had come? Would he have simply said to hell with it all, and thanked God that she had survived?

Of course, she had one person to thank for that.

Ann bit her lower lip as she felt her cheeks grow warm with vexation. She had always prided herself on her level-headedness, but she had allowed herself to be caught up in a blind panic, like a deer in a sudden headlight, as she stood frozen in a crowded bank. Obviously it was incredibly brave (and stupid) for him to take on three aliens single-handedly, but he had. And she had survived because of him.

Then she had blabbed about how grateful she was to him on national—freaking—TV. And, worse still, she'd sounded like an awestruck, smitten, obnoxious schoolgirl over the man!

Over Captain America.

She hadn't believed it at first; after all, her father had told her how he had died putting a plane in the ocean for—something. But he was most certainly, if honorably, _dead. _

Plus, even if he hadn't died then, he would certainly be dead now; and even if he wasn't dead now, he wouldn't have looked the way he had.

Ann had had a poster of him in her room growing up. Though it was his likeness, it hadn't captured his perfect (if grimy and singed at the time) blond hair, baby-blue eyes, strong jaw and chin, and body of a demigod (comparable to Thor, whom she had immediately recognized as the Nordic God of Thunder. It was indeed an unsettling day three weeks ago).

She slapped herself in the forehead and gave a small groan. _Stupid, _she chastised herself, _You are a scholar, not an estrogen-ridden teenager. _She'd be darned if she lost an ounce of focus or sleep because she was mooning over some superhero she'd been half-convinced never existed until three weeks ago.

But still. Fighting to get the traumatic events out of her head and keenly, uncomfortably aware of her own helplessness, Ann had enrolled in an extra class at school for when classes finally started up again, volunteered daily in the clean-up effort, and joined a self-defense class. While still far from able to take on an alien attacker, she could now protect herself if she needed to. But, shaking her head to clear the negative thoughts and trying to focus on her studies, she turned her attention back to the textbook.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Ann jumped and turned to the patron. "Oh! I'm so sorry, sir, I guess I…" She briefly trailed off. "I just zoned out." _No way._

"No problem, miss. I understand it's very late and…did I interrupt your reading?" the man indicated her open book with a hand.

It took a moment for her to find her voice. "Not quite, I guess I was just sleeping with my eyes open." She still couldn't believe them. It was impossible, and yet—it was the same face, the same hair (now combed and parted, perfectly shiny), the same blue eyes, the same build, as if he'd just stepped out of a leading role in a Disney movie. "I'll ring you up."

"Thank you, miss." He smiled. She gave a small one in return, still refusing to believe her suspicions as he settled his purchases on the counter—bread, peanut butter, jelly. She had been there long enough to know the usual composition of a late-night store run, generally some type of booze, ramen noodles, coffee or energy drinks, condoms. But this was so normal, so…American. _This can't be real._

"What are you studying?"

Ann jolted. "Oh, um, I'm a grad student at Fordham. I'm studying to be a history teacher. My dad was a history buff, so…" _Ann, _the rational part of her brain hissed. _Shut up. This random guy doesn't care._

"I'm sure he'd be proud that you're carrying on the legacy."

Ann looked up, half-expecting to see a derisive smirk on his lips, but his face was open and honest, his tone genuine.

_No one even talks like this anymore!_

"Thanks." She rapidly tapped a few buttons. "Cash or credit?"

"Cash." He slid a twenty towards her. "And, please, keep the change; I've heard how student fees are ridiculous these days."

She raised an eyebrow. The man looked only two or three years older than she was. But before she could respond, the door banged open, and a man entered. He knocked aside the blond and held a gun up to Ann's body. Tossing a bag towards her, he ordered, "Put the money in the sack."

Ann's heart jumped into her throat. Her life, threatened for the second time in three weeks. What were the odds?

"Step away from the woman," the blond ordered even as Ann turned to empty the register. But an idea occurred to her as the robber started to pick a fight with the blond—or was it vice versa, and the blond was trying to distract the gunman?

Whatever. Let him play hero.

"Here!" She cried. The man turned back to her for the bag; however, instead of the sack, he received a heavy blow to the face with a thousand-page United States History textbook. He crumpled to the floor in a heap.

The blond stared at her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm more worried about the book," Ann replied, examining the binding for any damage. "I'm loaning it this semester." She was shaken, alright, but under control—not like three weeks ago.

Baby steps, she supposed.

His jaw tightened. "You should have let me handle him."

She wondered if there was a facial expression that didn't make him attractive. "What, and let you get shot? That'd go well with my manager."

Those blue eyes hardened. "He could have shot _you._"

Ann threw her hands in the air. "I can't tell if you're chivalrous or chauvinistic."

"I just gave you a seventeen-dollar tip, so let's go with the former," The man retorted. Ann had to nod, conceding his point. Maybe she was more shaken up than she'd realized. Picking a fight with him after trying to protect her? Not immediately calling the police after she'd knocked him unconscious? What was she thinking?

"Yo, man, what's taking you so long?" A second robber barged into the shop. He stopped short at the sight of Ann, the customer, and his accomplice on the ground. He drew his gun.

The blond turned to Ann. "Clear out," he ordered before focusing all his attention on the second robber.

Ann hid under the counter. The command had broken through the last of her doubts. His words, his tone, matched the phrase that had been on her mind for weeks:

"_Everybody clear out!"_

Captain America was in her store.

She peeked over the counter. Captain America reached for the man—twisted his wrist—avoided the bullet the robber shot out of it, which smashed a bottle of cheap wine on display—ripped the gun from his hand and pinned his arm behind his back in one smooth motion, forcing the robber to his knees.

It was fast. As in, over-in-three-seconds fast. No doubt that the blond was a highly seasoned hand-to-hand fighter, used to more talented adversaries. He appeared as calm and collected as he had before the man had entered the shop.

"You can come out, miss."

She stood up.

"Are you still alright?"

She nodded numbly. "I hit the police call button. They should be here in a few minutes."

Captain America smiled at her again.

The police came, arrested the attempted robbers, and took statements from both Ann and Captain America. The man couldn't be dissuaded from helping clean up the spilled wine (the red made the area look like something much grislier had taken place than what had occurred), so she was hard put not to stare at his forearms as he scrubbed the stain off the floor tiles with her. (_Focus, Ann, focus—he's still a man, just like all the others… just a very attractive one, who happens to be a superhero…)_

"Well," Ann said, grabbing her jacket, purse, and textbook after locking up the cash register. "After all that, I could use a drink."

"At this time?" Captain America checked his watch. "It's past one. Now's when all the crazies are out, I hear."

"I'll protect you." For a moment, Ann feared he would interpret her words as an invitation like a date (which it honestly wasn't), like she was flirting with him (she wasn't doing that, either). She was relieved when he laughed.

"Good. You do have a ferocious swing. You ever play baseball?"

He was so. Captain. America.

"Still," he went on. "May I buy, miss…?"

For the second time that evening she struggled with her voice. "Ann. Yours?"

For the first time he looked a little uncomfortable. He shifted his weight for a few moments before quietly telling her, "Steve."

She knew he wasn't lying.

Ann smiled and let him hold the door open for her. "Well," she murmured to herself. "Thanks for saving me again, Steve."

* * *

_Amv: Simply the take of someone who clearly doesn't know the comics, so please no flames. Please tell me if you liked it! My apologies for not updating _Perfect Chemistry, _but I found myself living it so I had to take a break. -.-' Please tell me if you like it!_


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